Page 98 of Booked for the Holidays
She laughs, soft in the quiet space. “If you don’t want to, we can—”
“Shh.” I silence her with another kiss. “This isn’t about wanting.” I bring her palm to the front of my jeans. They’re tight, strained. “Doesthisfeel like I don’t want you?”
Bridget’s thumb runs up the seam of my zipper and back down. I let out a string of illogical words.
“What I mean,” I continue through a pant and a groan, “is I’m not prepared. Believe it or not, I don’t carry condoms in my pocket.”
She reaches into the pocket I didn’t occupy, producing a foil packet. “I am.”
“Jesus, woman. It’s like you’re begging me for it.”
Her palm cups me, intentional hand movements causing my hips to jerk.
“Maybe I am. Please, Theo. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
Thatword. Every time she says it, I want to give her anything she asks.
“Okay.”
It’s an easy agreement. She hustles to lock the front door, turning the sign in the window to ‘closed.’ When she comes back, I kiss her tenderly, fingers undoing her ponytail. Brown cascades down her shoulders. I back us up until we reach the counter. Her hands fist my shirt and grab the hem, tugging it over my head. My glasses knock to the side.
“Can you see without these?” she asks, adjusting the frames on my face.
“Sort of. I can see up close. I can see you.” I pull her shirt off. A black bra is underneath. It’s nothing fancy or racy, just simple cotton, but beautiful nonetheless. It’s enough to make my head spin. I kiss her bare shoulder, the patch of freckles there. My fingers trace the marks and I smile.
I wonder if she can feel the tremor in my hands as I cup her cheek. I wonder if she notices how fast my heart is beating under her palm.
“I want this to feel good for you,” I mumble. “Tell me what you like, okay?”
“Everything you’ve done so far has been… it’s been sogood.”
The affirmation shakes my nerves. Releases the tension in my shoulders, years of inactivity forgotten. I spin her around, her back to me and chest toward the counter.
“Hands here,” I instruct, guiding her palms to the laminate. She obliges, fingers curling over the edge to steady herself. My foot nudges her feet apart. I step back, admiring the view.
Her skirt is bunched around her waist, ass unobstructed. Round, smooth. An offering to me. I drop to my knees, a man ready to make a prayer, and she whines.
Her hand reaches behind her, finds my hair. Fingers curl around my locks, a tug on my scalp.
“I like you on your knees,” she whispers.
“Good, because I want to spend all of my life down here.”
Head between her legs. Hands bracketing the back of her thighs, rubbing the patch of skin below her backside. Tongue relishing in her delicious taste. It’d be a good way to go.
I hook my fingers over the hem of her underwear, pushing them aside. My thumb parts her, dipping into the sweet wetness I know is waiting for me.
“T-that feels good,” she exhales. It’s shaky, but sure. I hear the sigh that follows. The breathy moan. The pleased hum. I move my thumb away, exchanging it for my pointer and middle fingers next, finding a steady rhythm.
Bold and empowered, encouraged by the rock of her hips, the dampness of my fingers, I drop a kiss to her ass, teeth gently sinking into her skin.
“Okay?” I ask, the hardwood floor bruising my knees. I don’t even mind the sting.
“Fine,” she answers.
“Being a smartass will get you in trouble.”
“I told you I like trouble,” she whines.
